Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
by FlyingAlone
Summary: Hermione left the Magical world, returning back to the Muggle world. She's lost everything, broken inside. But, it's Christmas. This is a Christmas love story. Will Hermione's mysterious man help her to recover?


Hermione Granger sat very still. She did not want to move an inch. It had become very cold, very quickly; even the hot chocolate, which was in her hands, had turned into the Arctic. The icy temperature was stirring her very soul. The frost had crept its way upon the bench, clawing at the crevasses in the grain of the wood. The frost twinkled under the dim street light, the orange glow illuminating the frost, as if it there was a light dusting of glitter over the grass and pavement area. The usual cliché of having snow near Christmas time was apparent; it was Christmas Eve, late evening.

Christmas Eve, oh how she dreaded it these past two years. An anniversary she very much dreaded. And, to top it all off, she was sat upon the bench where it all ended. Where _he _had ended it all, just two years ago on this very date. At this _very _time.

_Damn him, and his very nature! _She thought, to herself. Why was she sat her moping over something that happened two years ago?

_Because you still love him, idiot! _

Hermione snorted at her inner thoughts, before she sighed to herself. Hermione stretched out her black jean clad legs in front of her body, her eyes then rolled down to stare at the accompanying black snow boots. Before, they rolled up her legs - she began to notice how much weight she had actually lost in the last few months. Eating had become a luxury; along with sleep. The nightmares had started, yet again. She had tried dousing herself with Dreamless Sleep, but her body had come dependant on it for just a few hours' sleep nowadays. So, _he_ really was the least of her problems. Not that she had seen him since the day he had left her.

The light dusting of fine, white powder spilling onto her coat, evoked her though pattern to change, all of a sudden. It dragged her thoughts back to when she was a child, and she raced out into the snow to build a snowman. There was a time, where she had pulled her father away from his paperwork to just build a haphazardly snowman. His face was too far compact - an almost square shape - with an orange crayon for a nose; her mother could not find a carrot in the house. So Hermione being her sharp self, thought the orange crayon would do as a replacement. At the time she would have only been around five or six. Her dad and her had laughed at their feverish attempt to build a snowman; Hermione had named him Derek, and made sure she had a picture taken with him. The next time the sun came out, and melted Derek away, Hermione cried. And her dad promised to build "Derek 2," when there next was snow.

Hermione smiled at her fond memory, she missed being so young. So innocent. So carefree. Most of all: she missed her parents. They were long gone, as was _he. _

_Shut up, brain! _She scolded her mind. Placing her feet on the ground, and lifting her body off the drab bench, she stood up. Her body groaned in protest; it longed for rest. Hermione began to shuffle towards the busy city centre. She had turned down an alleyway to get here, previously. Now, she was heading back the way she had came. Dipping in the dark coloured pocket on her Parker coat, she pulled out a white packet of Richmond Super King cigarettes. Her delicate fingers opened the top, and delved into the packet before producing a cigarette. Hermione popped into her mouth, just before her hand dived back into her pocket to find her bright pink lighter. She flicked the switch on the side. Nothing.

"Fuck!" She sighed, "out of gas."

Approaching the city centre now, she decided on asking a stranger if they had a light. Looking around to absence who was a smoker. Scanning strangers with faces that just looked like the back of thumb tacks. Hermione laughed at her her own reference to her favourite poet, Charles Bukowski. His poem 'The Crunch', it was by far her favourite and the line: "strangers with faces like the back of thumb tacks" was, too.

_Anyway, Hermione, back to the matter at hand._

Her eyes began to scan for anyone individual who she thought, may have a lighter.

Her eyes dawned upon a man clad in a dark navy-blue coat; loose, blue jeans; and a black turtleneck shirt. His hair seemed to skim long enough to brush over the hem of his navy-blue coat. Hermione couldn't tell what colour his hair was from afar. But she headed towards the man, smoke was billowing above him - evident that he was a smoker (or a Dragon!). Thus Hermione's reasoning for choosing the man. Not to mention how firm and peachy his backside looked in those jeans from behind. Hermione's eyes could not be torn away from how good his backside looked.

Now, that's a nice arse, she thought.

Looks a little like _his_, though. Doesn't it, Hermione? Her subconscious sneered. Hermione cleared her mind, just before she tapped the man's firm, narrow shoulder.

"Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I was wondering if you had a lighter. Mine's ran out of gas." She babbled on, reddening in the face as the man turned around - too tall for Hermione to see his face, only the shadow outline of a peaked nose.

Hermione's lips were pursed, as the cigarette still hung out of her mouth.

"Of course - here," his gruff, baritone voice bellowed out. His voice sounded as smoothing as silk felt on one's skin, as molten as a volcano. Hermione's eyes widened with surprise; she had no expected that. Her cheeks still rosy, she decided to reply, "Thank you, sir."

The man's hand outstretched to pass Hermione the lighter; she grabbed it clumsily. Rolling her thumb over the thumbwheel, which ignited the flint, then produced a bright orangey flame. Bringing her cigarette towards it; the cigarette finally lit up. Hermione's fingered arched around the cigarette's sides, before she blew the smoke out of her mouth.

"Oh... That's good. Thank you." She said, once again, as she passed the lighter back to the man. The man simply huffed, shrugging his shoulders.

"Nothing like the nicotine rush, is there?" He laughed, his voice lacing over her skin.

_Hmmm, beautiful voiced man, _she thought.

"No there is note. Exactly what I was thinking as I took the drag." She laughed in response. The man turned to asses Hermione's physical form - his dark eyes rolling, and a ghost of a smile appeared upon his thin, dark lips. Hermione wished she could see who he was; She was quite desperate to see if it was _him_. Oh, how she yearned for him to come back into her life. Oh, The Man-Who-Left.

His eyes now ran back up to her eye-level and extended his hand, "I shall part with you now, my lady. I must get home. But here -" he paused to pass her a scrap piece of paper - "take my number, maybe we could go for a drink at some point... Just call me." He suggested.

His hand stuffed the paper into her palm, before his long legs began to stride into the white powder sprinkled on the floor. It looked exactly like icing sugar with trodden in footprint, from all the strangers aimlessly dawdling on their way home. Hermione - rather shell shocked - looked at the paper in her hands.

"I don't know your name!" She yelled with frustration. What seemed to be an attractive man had handed her his number, yet how could she call him?

_Hey I'm the woman that stopped you in the street - asking to borrow your lighter. Let's go for a drink, Mysterious Man,_ Hermione thought sardonically.

Puffing on her cigarette, she walked with pace to her apartment, which was only a five minutes' walk from the bench she had sat on. In a way, it was nice to feel close to where it all ended that day; but it meant she had easy access to it. Not that she visited often, just on this day. She didn't even know why; it had just became a habit.

XXX

**The day before:**

Curled into the dark-brown sofa, with several cushions and blankets pulled over her head, while tears fell from the ducts of her eyes, before droplets spilled onto the pale blanket. She had barely slept. Yet again. She didn't bother administrating the Dreamless Sleep last night, instead she had lay awake on the sofa, crying. In between small intervals of sleep. Now, it was morning. And she had work to get to in less than an hour. _I suppose I had better get ready for my last day. Christmas Eve. _Peeling herself from the sofa's comfort, getting up and heading into her bedroom.

_Hmm - what to wear? Professional?_

Pulling at her wardrobe, it was made of oak, but painted an ivory-white. Her whole room at the same theme: shabby chic. Hermione had candles decorating the whole room, she preferred the dim light, just bright enough for reading. Plus, she got used to using candles at Hogwarts - yet again, another old habit she couldn't kick.

_Plus, it is better for the environment, _She justified to herself. Finally, she decided on what to wear: black, knee-length pencil skirt; blue button-up shirt; and a black blazer. She shoved the 'professional' clothes on, before slapping concealer on her tired-looking eyes and a small amount of red lipstick.

_Jesus, I look a mess, _she thought as she gazed at her own reflection in her mirror. Twisting her hair into a neat bun; she soon headed out into the front door of her new flat, which was funded by selling her belated-parents' old home. Her way to work was rather a pleasant one; she had stumbled upon a few stray smile from the odd stranger. The Christmas fever seeping in merrily to all - but Hermione.

Stepping into her workplace, it was a Muggle workplace. Hermione had moved from the Magical world, as a result had gone into university at Britain's finest, and most prestigious, University of Cambridge. She had chosen to study 'English'. A mixture of Classics, History, Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic, Linguistics, Modern and Medieval Languages and

Theology and Religious Studies. And, was now working in the media industry; working under a playwright, his assistant. Only until she gained enough experience to go freelance.

Hermione pressed the elevator, beckoning it to the level she was on. The button glowed red, before a pinging sound appeared, and then the elevator was there in front of her. She stepped in, then was elevated to her floor.

Resuming her normal place, just a desk outside Guy's office. Guy Hawkins was her boss, the playwright; a very renowned one,too! He had worked with many famously celebrities, and turned his hand to writing books and directing the plays he wrote.

Guy walked in and smiled at Hermione briefly. "Granger, hello. How are you?" He asked.

"Fine. Thank you, sir." Was her reply.

"Well, you don't look it. You, quite frankly, look like shit." He commented.

Despite being renowned, and well-known, he was rather like Gordon Ramsey. In the respect of having a rather loose tongue when it came to inappropriate language.

"I feel it. I am just tired, sir." She rolled her eyes.

"Go home, Granger - full pay." He replied, not looking into her eyes.

"Okay, thank you, sir."

Hermione left as quickly as she could, flushed with embarrassment. Did she really look that bad? Soon, she had made her way out of the office and back onto the pavement; she felt a person's eyes on her all the way home. Until she had hid inside her rather nice home. She felt comfortable here, hidden away from all. Soon, she had made her way to bed, and slept the for just over an hour. Before she woke up, the fact dawned on her: tomorrow. It all happened two years ago tomorrow.

XXX

**Two years ago:**

His tall, narrow silhouette disappeared into the cloaked darkness. Hermione watching as his footsteps faded, and all that could be heard were her own sobs, her head falling against her chest. A paroxysm of emotion riddled through her whole body. Flowing through her body. He had left her broken. Why? It was the last thing she needed right now.

She began to have a panic attack, all of a sudden. Her body soon gave up. Through: tiredness, exhaustion, the panic attack had racked her body from all her energy.

Her lifeless body lay on the bench for some time afterwards, footsteps racked backed down the alley.

"Oh, Hermione..." His voice whispered, before he placed a Sleep Draught into her mouth, ensuring she swallowed it while she was unconscious. He carried her back to her flat, in his strong arms. He settled her into her own bed. Allowing her to stretch upon her cream sheets; he then placed the sheet over her body, before sliding next to her.

Oh, how he was going to miss her, but it was for her own good. He had to leave her behind. Oh, how he would miss her. He loved her. And would always.

"Bye, my sweet girl, and Merry Christmas." He said, kissing her lips for the last time. He had stayed until passed twelve, ensuring he saw her past twelve at night, Christmas Day. Like he promised.

XXX

_**Hey,**_** guys. A Christmas themed story for you. I thought it was a good idea. I really wanted to do something a little different. It will work out - and I shall reveal who the Mystery Man is ; ) and who Hermione was in a relationship with before... **


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